All that Remains
by Sister Havoc
Summary: When a disorientated Tron rises from his watery grave, he must return to his role as protector, and mend the damages by his alternate persona.


The grid held no room for mistake. Everything was carefully processed before it manifested, all ample outcomes weighed and evaluated with precise calculation. Despite protocol, software with aggressive intentions often made it under the gate, slipping away to the far reaches of the city. But with an array of data streams and processes to maintain, nobody had time to notice. One mistake was all it took. A single rogue program, in plain sight and welcomed with open arms, segregated the grid. And up until Flynn's return, the blinders remained on, walling programs off from the developing monarchy over their system, and their future.

King, that's what they would call him. They'd shout his name in the streets as he walked by; Clu! Clu! Even the mention of his prophetical liberations would ignite circuits with admiration; a blanketing arrogance that sewed his fate. The underestimated return of the Users became the terminal crack in the cogs, and the empire collapsed. The system – aligned for perfection – would live on without him. But the kingdom's inheritance did not fall to the hero and his heroine - for they set out to create a new life - but rather, to a victim of the onslaught. Taken on the shoulders of the king's nobility lie the future, a self-employed burden, to maintain all sound minds and security on the grid. No easy task, it guaranteed an unbearable load, in time, without wise action. Though wisdom to a program came at a price; outdated coding, worn hardware and depleted memory. But to this program, it was his greatest asset. Working beside the king's themselves, he understood the complex system between authority and freedom, and knew that no program would accept either which way. Cycles in the arena had honed his combat abilities, naming him virtually unmatched in battle, and granted him an air of respect and intimidation. What some coined as love, he dismissed as loyalty. By silent oath, he swore protection over all programs and users, never by means of unnecessary force.

Alive with a roaring hum, his lightcycle's flawlessly dynamic design made easy work of the angular roads, permitting a lazy ride and an exhibit of the city's esthetic architecture. When it wasn't being dismantled by grid bugs, or devastated by tyrannous leaders, the city was beautiful. Its elaborate circuitry blazed in unison with the thousands of programs within, providing all means of existence. Refuge, limelight, entertainment, synergy and discord; it was the closest balance the grid held to an ecosystem. Tron relished in that harmony. It was a reflection of something greater, that the grid might exist as its' own entity one day, no longer tethered to the world of the creator. But it was a passing thought, smothered out of existence. The grid would remain as it was.

With a cache reset, Tron brought himself to a smooth halt, derezzing his helmet as his cycle followed suit. He locked the cycle's baton into its designated panel, hearing the distant holler of the city, before heading towards the damaged elevator doors. Ever since Clu's intervention, this side of town had gone silent, the few sentries and programs exempt. Tron tapped his designation into the keypad, sealing the doors shut. The elevator lurched to life. Looking out at the city, a spark of doubt clogged his process queue. How long could he maintain the system alone? Was Sam Flynn remotely concerned about the grid? Would this anarchy uphold itself? Another reset. He frowned. As the elevator ascended, the scars Clu had left came into view, fragmented data waiting to be purged from the system. Like an elaborate chaos of vines, they encompassed the entrance to the club, gleaming and gruesome reminders. The lift lurched once more, signaling the destination's arrival. Tron turned as the doors eased apart, to his blatant shock, opening up to a booming club of light and energy. Hesitantly, he stepped inside. Strange, the club was a husk of its' former self during his previous visit. But this patrol certainly yielded different results. Departing programs shouldered past him, one or two offering their friendly glance.

Reaching the bar, he took a seat, eyes still wandering in the wake of confusion and music. His curiosity started to proc, until an abrupt call-out interrupted the vain attempt.

"Tron, dearest hero!" Tron turned to spy the host, drink in hand, cane in the other. "How commendable of you to visit me twice this cycle." He took a seat beside the confused program, setting his drink aside and issuing a gracious smile.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Tron's active cache was stuttering, frozen in disbelief. No – this was surely his first visit to End of Line in a long while.

"…twice this cycle?" He muttered.

"Why, you were here just this past micro," Castor chuckled, oblivious to the security program's turmoil. "Helped me snuff out a few nasty viruses and clean the place up- eternally grateful, by the way."  
It still didn't add up. His mind buzzed with the inconsistencies, navigating his attention elsewhere and disconnecting him completely from the boisterous club. He didn't notice Castor, staggering from his chair onto his only remaining leg, relocating himself behind the bar. He shuffled about, finding the desired integrals of a concoction for his friend. He tapped the delicate glass before sliding it across the counter.  
"Have a drink."  
Tron looked up, all uncertainties abandoned. He smiled, relieved by the figurative hand on his shoulder, and offered his thanks before taking a drink. It was the revitalizing jolt that he needed, his system whirring to full capacity. As he kicked back the illuminated liquid, Castor shifted his posture, repositioning his cane to better stabilize his weight.

"So," He repeated. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"  
Setting his glass aside, Tron stifled his confusion; respectively, he would address it later.

"Rescheduled a later patrol," He played it off. "I received word of corrupt data in this area. Must have been a false lead though, this sector's quiet."  
"Fascinating." Castor hummed. "Conveniently enough, my establishment traffics an array of programs-" He said with a flamboyant twirl of his wrist, gesturing to all the party attendees. "–but it just so happens that one, a lovely little lady, asked for you not too long ago."  
Tron immediately perked up.  
"In fact, there she is now."

Mingling in the midst of the chaos was Castor's interrogator. Clad in the customary light suit, her lithe body left nothing to imagination, unique circuitry following every swoop and curve. Her pale face was luminous in the radiate lighting, framed by jet-black hair. She was laughing, encoring a friendly program for their tasteful humor, letting her knees weaken as she gave into the plea.  
"Whether you believe in her or not, lady Fate sure loves to push your buttons," Castor teased. But Tron didn't hear it. Dismissing his drink to the side, he uttered a barely audible apology and left his seat, leaving the host to his remaining guests.

He was cool, collected, but something in him stirred. He knew her. Her face, her pattern, the style of her strike- undoubtedly, they had met. He was certain of it. His processor scorched as he drew closer, a humming twinge in his skull. Fighting his deceitful memory, he reached for her shoulder.

Suddenly, she turned, locking their eyes at an uncomfortable distance.  
"Tron!"

It surprised him enough to step back, granting them both some space. He wanted to return the formality, but the program's name eluded him.  
"Castor told you?" She asked. He gave a solemn nod, still diligently searching the recesses of his mind. Their exchange repelled the other guests; the female's former companions now dismissing themselves to the rest of the club. Tron was seen as a program of function, and rarely did he patrol without purpose. Program's usually stayed out of his way, the friendly passersby exempt, and let him carry out his self-assigned routes. However, known by many as his alternate persona, he was more often avoided out of fear than respect.

"Flynn told me everything about you- everything you'd sacrificed for the users, for the Iso's." She said, her eyes locked on his with an admiring awe. "He said that if there was ever a chance Clu was overthrown, it would be by your hand."

The shackles on his mind finally shattered; every conception he had about her breaching the surface. Quorra: the Iso he had met before repurpose, Sam Flynn's companion, the one that got away.

"Quorra," He said. "You survived." Caught off guard by the security program's surprise, she nodded. It escaped her that they had only met on two occasions; one friendly, the other not nearly as so. She gave a faint smile.

"Sorry, I…I forgot how long you've been stuck in the dark," She said, averting her gaze. Tron blankly stared.

"Repurposed," She said. "How much you never saw from under Clu's heel." The idiom set his circuits ablaze, the content purr of his system rumbling into a low growl. Although he felt guilt for his failure to the grid, he detested dwelling on it, and carried out his duties as protector. Mending the past was a fleeting hope; he would fight for his redemption, now, for the creator.

"You're a hero, Tron," She intervened, choking his building frustration. "If you hadn't sabotaged Clu's plans as you did, none of my people would have survived."

"But they didn't survive!" Tron's composure snapped. He felt a sudden rush of power in his disc, an overwhelming flare. The entity that had been straining him all these cycles finally came to a head. Obey, it said. Attack. Just as he was about to give in, he felt an even greater warmth envelop his hand.

"I survived," She said, energy sharing through their palms.

"I almost had you dere-!"

"No," Quorra shook her head. "That was for Clu. That was Rinzler. That wasn't you."

The sudden recognition soothed the malicious software back into his core, relinquishing its' strangling hold and granting him a breath.

"You aren't the same."

He looked away, undoubtedly questioning her honesty. It was difficult for him to grasp the concept of self, of Tron, anymore. If Tron and Rinzler were separate in code, how could one see through the eyes of the other? How could one program remember the deeds done by the latter? In his mind, it didn't add up. It never would.

Quorra frowned as he pulled his hand out of hers. As he was about to speak, the vigilant Iso suddenly jumped forward, wrapping her arms around his torso, pressing their circuits together. They briefly flashed a faint violet, the affection subsiding his cryptic woe. Much like Flynn had taught Yori, no doubt, it was what she had learned from the users. He knew this gesture, and although hesitant to return it, his arms closed to envelop her shape.

"This is Tron," She said. "You are Tron."

He gave a humble nod, feeling her grip tighten.

"Quorra, I'm sorry," He said, quiet yet firm. "I'm sorry I was not able to save your people, as I should have." His voice strengthened, infused with a new responsibility and strength. "I am sorry for the damage Rinzler has caused. I will find a way to right my -" He stuttered. "- his wrongs."

Quorra smiled.

"You've already been redeemed."

For a moment, the club ceased to exist. The music and its enthusiastic listeners faded out. Even the atmospheric glow of the white lights was quieted to a dull roar. Unison of forgiveness and hope refreshingly veiled the programs, shutting out the chaos around them. This purge of doubt, of regret and guilt freed Tron's system, recharging his code with a new outlook. Perhaps there was something to fight for again, for more than just the admin, for more than the users –

Quorra had left with a user – more than likely the same one that sent her back to the grid – but he could only speculate why. Why had she come; more importantly, why with the sole intent of finding him? Only one thing was he sure of; Quorra had returned to the grid, for however long he was unaware, and she had come with a purpose.

"The boy," He started. "Is he alright?" She pulled from their embrace, looking up at him, letting their hands cling.

"Sam?"

Tron nodded.

"Of course," She said. "He sent me here to-" She stopped, realizing the distanced crowd they had begun to attract. Any program in sight had their eyes on the two, meddling into affairs that weren't their own as they dispensed a handful of rumors to curious ears. Quorra, although unashamed, was not thrilled by the limelight. The feeling was mutual.

They shot each other a glance which said it all, and the two made for the elevator. Programs were quick to part as they innocently meandered off, playing fool to anything they had just witnessed. Castor, however, was not nearly as humble.

As the iso and security program neared the exit, a sharp whistle followed after them. They looked back, spotting the host just behind his bar. Lifting a drink, he toasted to the both of them, a very cheeky grin accessorizing his face. Tron turned away, Quorra waved goodbye, and the elevator doors shut behind them, leaving the club and its' assumptions at their worst.


End file.
